I-91 South
Been seeing
lighthouses, lately.
More than a normal amount of
lighthouses’,
I guess.
There’s
nothing to illuminate
but August-dry stalks, bathed
in tinnitic, sanguinary wind. charcoal
ed crops don’t do much, under fluorescence.
My sunhat doesn’t neither.
Not that I’m getting
burnt. Doctor,
Harvest season’s
on it’s way,
Doc say’s.
the grand Interior’s
now ready for
its grander
Deflowering.
Not that flowers
have anything to do with it.
One wonders what a lighthouse is doing there.
I think I am beginning to know.
This thing we’re still
calling a squall
hasn’t
stopped for a
Good long while, now.
Cartilage peeks out, behind the eyes.
NNNNNNNNNot that cartilage
a bug sheds its skin; graft
it back on please Doc
HHHHHHHas
anything
to do
with
it.
The sky
Encroaches,
Or recoils revuls
ive, its clouds like lungs
clogged with edema; pulmonar
ily pregnant mothers far past due. Doc,
why do the lighthouses Doc, why are the li
ghthouses searching so fitfully? Their light is
Oh So Very Difficult to find in this poor weather. Th
ese eyes betray, grunged with rain and spoils. No need f
or eyedrops now. Doc, I think the sun is ashamed, or grieving;
she hasn’t shown her face in Harvest season’s nearly here, say’s
Doc. Oh; Let me just take a shower before it comes in. I do not want it to
And it all floods in as the heavens crack upon a lighthouse’s steeple, too-pointed,
arrogant, and, for a moment, we are all equal, terrified and accepting under
the terrible crash of Ordinance. Lungs avalanche through ribs eternal.
Death has exchanged his horse for a surfboard and he rides the
foamed edge of his bellowing wave as the Earth collapses,
culling all he can. He bawls through the cacophony; in
the mi(d)st of cataclysm, perhaps there is fun to be
found. Ohh, oh; The distance between your bed
and bath has become so great. I think this tor
rent washes itself. Phlegm-wreathed he
morrhage and accelerated erosion.
Snowfall and forest swaddled,
land drawn and quartered;
maize and rapeseed
finally reaped,
a molting
world
with
no
Doc
to graft
it back on.
I think it’s time
for us, too, to molt,
and harvest. This
new helix of
stars beck
ons bas
hfu
l.